How a Walrus Loses Oysters

what is my daughter wearing 


as she rustles about like

a slender tree,

who sways around this Wandering House 

oh this Wandering House

who tucks my glasses  where

it ought not

and giggles every time i walk down the hall 

of course they are not to be found 

 under these mansuscripts or

behind my phone

and now i have to admit

they have gotten my goat 

where have the waves of these old grey sweats  taken them??

flung them  about  sands

i suppose

caring little as to whether they are washed away

with some remote seaweed

oh there they are !

no no that is not them at all

just the edge of a book

might as well be the White Rabbit’s pocket watch 

so Tweedle me Dum

Alice and the walrus stare at me
as i pass 

by the looking glass 

it seems they are having tea with Monet

who swears he hasn’t seen them either

till i pluck them like an oyster 

off his bewildered head


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